


Obscene Orchestra

by TheSuspiciousOrange



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Cybertronian, Dick Jokes, Gen, I'm Sorry, Language, Language Kink, Languages and Linguistics, Most of the characters only have a mention, RIP wine, Reader-Insert, Swerve's Bar, The Transformers: Lost Light, The Transformers: More Than Meets the Eye (IDW), but no one gets hurt, except your wine, mosh pit attempts gone wrong
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-10
Updated: 2017-04-10
Packaged: 2018-10-17 03:34:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10585587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSuspiciousOrange/pseuds/TheSuspiciousOrange
Summary: You're a human with a very rare and unique skill; one that everyone on the Lost Light can respect.Shame that's not what gets their engines revving.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Blame RockSinMuffin for encouraging this trash. Smh.
> 
> Unbeta'd and written at like, midnight.

You had a skill that many people of organic nature would give their left arm for. Maybe a few other things, too.

The ability to speak Cybertronian.

It had taken a year or two of focused effort and more than a little digital magic, but you gathered a collection of audio samples from a few mechs that you happily call friends and willing to use their voices for the good of _science_. A bit of tweaking here and there had them broken down to their most basic elements. Sifting through the crackle of robotic static and snap of vocal processors, you linked the core sounds of the words to their appropriate symbols and the equivalent in your native tongue. While a _lot_ of work, it hadn't exactly been hard.

No, the hard part was remembering the ever so slight variations in a warble here or a click there. Year after year of repetition, of memorization, of unwavering dedication and soon you were carrying on conversations with the likes of Ultra Magnus and Rodimus in their native language. With that, you had been the first organic to ever learn to speak a dialect intended purely for robotic vocals.

Your accent could use work, was what you were mostly told by a few mechs, and that your approximations of the sounds needed to be taken with a grain of salt, but otherwise everyone you had spoken with confirmed that your mastery of the language was quite impressive. The general message was on point and you clearly understood what was being spoken to you. A simple filter mask to add the natural static overlay of the language further improved your clarity, cementing your claim on fluency. It was quite the achievement, in your humble opinion.

Unsurprisingly, this skill landed you a one-way ticket aboard the Lost Light as Earth's ambassador. A gesture of goodwill, your friend Rodimus had insisted to your country's government, to further nurture blossoming human and Cybertronian relations. While that fact was but a cherry on the sundae, you were mostly eager to test your mettle against a completely foreign environment. Few, if any, aboard the ship could or wanted to speak your tongue. You would have to speak their language for the entirety of your stay if you wanted to get anything done without grinding anyone's gears.

Needless to say, the first time you spoke with a bot (Rung, if you recalled correctly) beyond your circle of friends, you had given the mech quite a shock. Naturally, you'd panicked at his startled expression, thinking you'd somehow insulted him unintentionally, stammering out rapid apologies in both languages. After a few moments of clarification and explainations, it was all blown over with a few laughs and the start of a new friendship.

Now, five years after your first terrified, stuttering words on the ship, you could look back at the memory fondly. These days, you were carrying on casual conversations like you had been born speaking the language. You'd even gotten a good grasp on Cybertronian slang, like "scrap" or "frag".  Whirl had cracked a joke several times that you must have been a Spark stuffed in a meatsuit, with how well you'd taken to the robotic tongue. But otherwise, you were spoken to just the same as everyone else. You were treated the same as the rest of the crew and you enjoyed your time among these giant, mostly harmless mechs.

Tonight should have been no different. And it wouldn't have been.

If you hadn't slipped.

It had started out as a usual day. You got off monitor duty with Red Alert, your relief shift of Tailgate reminding you about your turn for movie night tomorrow. You were picking a human film for everyone to watch, explaining and clarifying Earth idiosyncrasies that would no doubt confuse them. Picking your way to Swerve's, you had your usual ration, water, and a glass of wine to wind down from the tension of work. You carefully removed your vocal mod mask and set it on the table to enjoy your meal. Everything had been normal. The usual.

Until an overzealous (and probably overcharged) group of mechs attempting a mosh-pit sent Rewind stumbling back into you as you went to take a sip of the alcoholic nectar in your grasp.

White wine sloshed all over your hand, shirt, and your vocal mod, the latter of the victims giving a sad fizzle and pop as circuits quickly began frying from the liquid seeping into the cracks. Before you could stop yourself, a long stream of words came pouring out as you shook off your hands.

"Fucking hell! What did I tell you guys about that shit? If you wanna to mosh, then do it as far away from the tiny ass human as possible. I don't get hazard pay for you shitlords accidentally crushing me."

The bar is deathly silent for a moment, optics of all colours trained on you with unnerving focus. It took a second before their staring made sense.

You'd spoken in your native language, not theirs.

But before you could even internally question their thoughts, a dull _bang_ nearly had you jumping in your seat. The source, you find, is a flush-faced Swerve, digits digging into the bartop hard enough to leave dents. When you're ready to inquire about it, you're firmly interrupted by what you can only describe as an orchestra of gongs, accompanied by the base of revving engines and the windy roar of cycling vents.

Huh.

A small grin tugs at the corner of your mouth. Well how about that. Looks like you wouldn't have to worry about an empty, cold berth anymore. If the noise consensus of the bar was anything to go by, the crew's shared language kink would leave you in little want of anything, really. You could work with this.

"So which one of you horn-dogs is fixing my fucking vocalizer?"

A creak and a loud crash were the only warnings you got before you saw Whirl sprawled out on the floor by your table, interface panel wide open and helm sparking at a worrying rate.

Well... Shit.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes. I seriously wrote this as an excuse to make a robo-dong gong joke. You thought it was a build up for something amazing. IT WAS ALL A RUSE. A CLEVER GUISE!
> 
> ...I would like to issue a formal apology.
> 
> To be fair, I nearly made this into a multi-chapter, (semi)serious story because I have a thing for languages. That and robo-dongs slamming into the modesty plates when they get turned on fucking slays me every time and is my favourite thing ever.
> 
> Still taking requests, prompts, challenges, and the like! Don't be shy. Feel free to send one in!


End file.
